


The Company We Keep

by thelogicoftaste



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Bullying, Character Death, Childhood friendships!, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Friendship/Love, Gen, Love and other things, Teen AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicoftaste/pseuds/thelogicoftaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study in John and Sherlock, in which the boys learn the meaning of friendship and family through grief, fights and countless make-ups. A story wherein your heart breaks for brave John Watson and Sherlock comes to the rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Company We Keep

**Author's Note:**

> Yo! :)  
> Hi and welcome to my very first (published) story, I hope you guys like it. The epithet is from the song 'Coming up easy' by Paolo Nutini - it's jazzy and mellow and warm and fuzzy and it helped me overcome the terrible tears I had when I finished writing this :o  
> There is a gratuitous bit of violence throughout the beginning of the story but then it all melts into angsty-lovey goodness (I hope!) I'd watch out for Seb Moran's face 'cos he's an actual douche in this one but Johnlock save the day as the ultimate bro's :)  
> Further trigger warning are in the end notes.  
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Of course, Sherlock does not belong to me (sad as it may be) it belongs to the original creator Sir Arthur, and all the affiliates of the BBC, all of whom created this wonderful series - thanks be to you, Ladies and Gents :)

**One**

_It was in love I was created and in love is how I hope I die - Paolo Nutini_

-

At a first, cursory, glance one would think that the blonde boy in his neatly pressed trousers, green school tie, grey jumper and precise side parting was alone. He certainly seemed to be alone most of the time. He broke from the food line in the diner and walked in short, measured strides to a two-seat table tucked below a window in the farthest corner of the room. John Watson is his name, a soldier in the making at fourteen years of age.

He slid into one of the seats facing the room, always careful to seem inconspicuous. The slight tilt of his head, the turn of his body and the gleam of his blue eyes betrayed his loneliness. Considerate as he was to his surroundings he leant forward, he was very quiet but it was easy to read the exasperation in his face with the purse of his lips and the furrowing of his brows. It would not take a genius to understand the intimacy he had with his companion, his eyes reflected the infinite number of times he’s had this conversation before.

He looked down to his own food tray, which he’d ignored for the time being before he sighed and grabbed the cranberry muffin and the apple juice carton, shoving it forward. “Sherlock.” There was a soundlessness emanating from the seat opposite him which seemed to seep into his bones in annoyance, his brow furrowed further in irritation.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice had risen in increments and the persons of the tables in his vicinity turned towards him with a piteous smirk. His friend did look up then as John turned his away from the spectacle he had created and raised a single eyebrow. John was struck, once again at how magnificent his friend was.

Sherlock, with feline movements and faintly translucent skin, dusted with a pearl complexion, hints of his cheekbones peeking through, his graceful grey eyes with dark lashes fanning out over his cheeks and those unruly dark curls that tumbled over his ears and the collar of his shirt.

“Eat, Sherlock. I haven’t seen you eat anything for days.” He chastised. When his companion remained silent he continued: “I’m not taking no for an answer. Refusing to eat doesn’t make you hard or anything. It just makes you an idiot.”

A hand did reach forward to grab the muffin then, but this hand was all wrong: the fingers were tanned and squat instead of the pale, slender fingers they ought to be. The fingers in front of John, however, were digging into the muffin. The gooey inside was oozing out, chunks crumbling to the table in front of him before the whole putrid mess was thrown in his face. Sebastian Moran leered above the boy, a cruel smirk twisted into his features before looking over his shoulder and shouting over his friends to taunt the boy with his imaginary friend and his jumper sticky with cranberry.

All at once John was running, running from the stocky boy who was guffawing at his misfortune and from the diner, wherein everyone was staring at their new source of entertainment. He was running through empty corridors when he heard it behind him: five boys pounding the floor as they ran behind him, catcalling and mocking him. His cheeks were painfully red both with the exertion of running away and the raw humiliation. He chanced a look behind him and saw them, Sebastian in front and his lackeys barely three paces behind.

There was childish, malevolent glee written all over four of the boys’ faces. They couldn’t wait sink their fists into new flesh. There was nothing but pure hatred seething from Sebastian. The fury in his eyes and the determined contortion of his body as he sped towards John guaranteed him an imaginative variety of bruises. John turned the corner, at the very end of the corridor he was now running was a wall: a dead end.

Three feet before the dreaded wall was a set of blue double doors that led to the stairs which led down to the reception area and ultimately to a safe zone in which Sebastian and his gang wouldn’t dare lay a finger on him.

John careened down the stairs, holding on to the metal railing to stop himself from tumbling over the concrete steps. He reached the bottom step, prematurely grateful for escape when he was jostled to the side by a strong arm and fell painfully on his left shoulder– the body attached to the arm fell heavily on top of him with an ‘oomph’, before quickly regaining himself and grabbing John.

Aided by his friends he half-carried John down an adjoining corridor to the right and shoved John into the alcove beneath another staircase far away from prying eyes and ears.

John stood up, his back against the cupboard door that nestled in the niche – he wasn’t going to be defeated yet. Even though his shoulder throbbed and his bad leg had started to cramp he gritted his teeth and held his head high: “What do you want?”

“What do you want?” Sebastian mimicked in an intentionally poor imitation of John’s voice. They stood crowding around John and they laughed and laughed at Sebastian’s comedic genius with too many teeth and too little mercy.

They reminded John of criminals they always showed on Crimewatch, a television program that Sherlock insisted they watch, if only to mock them on their hapless approaches to criminality. He’d shove John aside to sit in what Sherlock always proclaimed as ‘his seat’ (no matter where John was sat) and bring his legs up to his chest and wrapping his long limbs around them.

“Blubbering idiots,” he’d seethe. “The lot of them, I could have done that in twenty minutes and gotten away without my face being seen.”

John would sigh, roll his eyes and remark, ‘Of course you could, Sherlock.”

The smirk dropped off of Sebastian’s face once he realised that John wasn’t particularly all there.

“Oi,” he pushed against John’s chest “What you thinking about? Thinking about your boyfriend? _Sherlock_. What a name, eh lads? You could have at least given him a real name, Johnny-boy.”

At this John’s hand curled into tight fists – the bullies saw and laughed at him again accompanied by a chorus of ‘Ooooh’. All John saw was Sebastian, the other boys had no names, no faces; they were shadows of Sebastian, a reflection of the hatred the boy harboured for John all these years for no credible reason.

So John steeled himself and prepared for the first blow. He didn’t break eye contact with Sebastian and kept his face impassive just as Sherlock had taught him with his hands beneath his chin and an exasperation John couldn’t explain.

John took a deep breath, tried to calm himself. _“Come on John, you want to be a soldier don’t you. Soldiers are tough – it’ll only be a couple of punches, you can handle that. Keep quiet, don’t give them the satisfaction. Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t taken before.”_

Albeit the punches and kicks would be coming from a little lower than John was used to and the hands would be a little more padded than Harry’s. Sebastian did the honours of beginning; the first punch was hard enough that it whipped John’s face to the side on impact with his cheek. The second split his lip and which subsequently spilt blood all over his chin, and the third careened his head back against the door to generate a dull crunch, John wasn’t sure if it was his skull or if it was the door.

All of this didn’t matter though as Sebastian used both his hands and fisted them up into John’s belly. He cried out as he fell to the ground, unable to keep the sound to himself.

Sebastian’s friends must have taken John’s lump form on the ground as an incentive to begin kicking and punching him because John found he was curled up trying to protect his head, his face and his belly. 

“No, no, no,” he thinks, “I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t take it, it hurts. I’m not Sherlock, who’d probably beat them all with his words, and his clever mind and the way he could glare. I’m a failure. I’m sorry Sherlock. I… I'm so sorry.”

John doesn’t know how long they were kicking him and hurting him and shouting at him. He doesn’t even remember when the bullies left or how long he’s been there with his eyes screwed shut and his laboured breathing.

He knows he’s been there long enough for the throng of students to thunder down the steps to their lessons, their voices raised and mingling, oblivious to the broken boy underneath their steps; their heavy steps that echoed in John’s head long after silence had once again descended upon the corridor. It hurts to move and to think so he keeps it at a minimum.

He’s in limbo, his mind a blessed vacuum of information; he’s doing his best to forget about the dull throbbing currently coursing through his body. It almost slips his mind until he remembers about his leg. It seizes up then, someone must have kicked it, and pulses sharp pain relentlessly through him. He doesn’t know when it begins but soon he sits up, in excruciating slowness, and pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps himself around his legs.

He begins to cry, the sobs forcing their way up his bruised throat. His shoulders shake as his body is tight with exhaustion. He cries because he is in pain, he cries because Sherlock has left him again and he cries because he doesn’t know where he went, he cries because he needs Sherlock and he cries because he hates how dependant he is.

-

John is still crying and he shakes with the shame of it all, willing himself to stop when he hears a low gasp, the sounds of someone stooping beside him and a hand on his shoulder. He flinches, “Oh God,” he thinks “No more, please, no more.”

“It’s okay,” a gentle voice says before carefully scooping him up into an embrace. “It’s okay, my name is Molly. I’m not going to hurt you, it’s okay.”

John cries develop into something altogether more desperate and so heart-wrenchingly human that Molly’s heart breaks a thousand times over for this boy with bruises colouring his skin, there are tears in his jumper and dirty scuff marks on his once pristine school uniform.

Molly stays with him, just holding afraid that any movement will hurt him any further. She stays with him until his tears stop and his sobs quieten and he pulls away from the strange woman offering him comfort and wipes his eyes and until all that is left is an intermittent tremor in his left hand. John watches as she brings up her legs to her chest to mimic John’s position, no doubt to provide a more psychological comfort.

He sees the stack of papers she was to put in the cupboard before she chanced upon him. He watches her for a while, through his swollen eye, and sees how her hair is tied back in a ponytail and how her clothes are unassuming and wonders what Sherlock would have thought of her.

“If he was here that is,” and John remembers that Sherlock has gone and left him and his chest constricts. Mostly though, John is surprised at the lack of pity in Molly’s pretty face, she only shows concern and compassion and a quiet anger swelling up in her at John’s attackers.

“I’m Molly, I- I work at Reception,” she says and John can only nod, but then he forces himself to speak when he realises she’s waiting for him to respond.

“John," he says. "Watson.”

His voice scratches at his throat and sounds tired and crackly to his own ears. It reminds him of the old gramophone in the library at Sherlock’s house. Sherlock would put one of Mr Holmes’ jazz records on the dial and put the needle on the record and the sounds of grainy, fuzz would fill the room. Sherlock would pout then, as if the noise was doing him a great injustice before Fred Astaire’s voice floated across the library and Sherlock’s face brightened.

“Are you okay?” Molly continued, “Don’t just say you are, because I know what that means, when you say you’re okay.”

John didn’t answer, he didn’t trust himself to answer and Molly understood this. He felt overwhelmed, in actual fact, by her ability to understand. Nobody but Sherlock could see through him so clearly.

“Shall we get out of here?” Molly suggested with a tilt of her head. The coldness that had instilled in John for fear of being seen like this must have shown in his eyes because Molly consoled him and said: “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure it’s empty. No-one will see you.”

And so, John found himself leaning heavily on Molly – a woman whose sheer strength contradicted her slight frame. She kept a constant stream of chatter to keep John focused, she told him about how she was only a receptionist part-time and she was currently preparing to train as a doctor at St Barts. John smiled as he thought how Sherlock would have probably known all of that within seconds of meeting her and then some.

Finally she led him through a discreet door just a little ways off the reception area, true to her word she left John leaning against the wall for a slight moment to check and then disperse anyone lingering at reception. The room was empty, the school medic had gone, but her things were still piled neatly in the corner and John hoped he’d leave before she got back. As soon as he was safely sat on the small medical bed placed to the side, Molly picked up the phone off of its cradle.

“Who are you calling?” John rasped, shifting uncomfortably on the bed cover.

“The headmaster, firstly and then the ambulance. You need to be checked over.” She told him adding, almost as an afterthought: “And your parents.”

“No!” John winced with the force of his refusal. “No, I don’t want an ambulance. I’m fine.” “John-” “You do it, please. You’re training to be a doctor anyway. I just – I don’t anyone seeing me like this.” She sighed defeated, before pressing the speed dial for the headmaster.

-

Sarah arrived not two minutes after Molly had dialled the headmaster. She fussed and tutted over John tilting his head this way and that, insisting he call her Sarah and not Doctor Sawyer, and John would have probably noticed how much he fancied her if not for the relentless pain that washed over him in waves. The blood that had crusted on John’s face was wiped clean by Sarah’s careful hands; she cleaned his wounds before beginning to place the gauze over them.

Gregory Lestrade bustled in with all his usual importance, making John jump with fright. He headed straight towards John and stopped, his eyes darting all over his bruised body before looking him in the eye.

He nodded at him, “All right?”

John nodded. A small, strangled “Yes,” aimed at the Headmaster. Lestrade straightened his posture before bringing his hands to rest at his hips, pushing his navy blue blazer to the back.

“How is he then?” Lestrade asked this of Molly rather than John, possibly sensing John’s reluctance to speak. Before Molly could even open her mouth two more people bundled into the small room. PC Sally Donovan the school/police liaison officer marched in and walked straight up to Lestrade, conversing with him in hushed tones. Trailing behind was PC Anderson, a tall man with a serious disposition who was fixing John with a piteous look.

“Where’s Sherlock?" Johns asks. "I haven’t seen him since …”

There was a sudden silence in the room, they all froze. There were so many people in the small room that John felt crowded. They glanced at each other nervously before they all peered at him, six tall and imposing adults over battered and bruised John Watson. Well, he was having none of it. He dragged his body to its full height and stared back at them, his left hand curled on the bed and shaking relentlessly.

“Parents are on the way,” Sally discreetly informed Lestrade before looking over at John again, cataloguing his bruises. She noticed how apprehensive he was and took a couple of steps backwards to not so much as crowd John in. They all stared at John, and he stared right back even when Sarah regained her composure and surreptitiously decided to trail her hands through John’s hair, inspecting his scalp for any cognitive injuries. Lestrade was the one who answered even though he looked he’d want nothing more than for the ground to swallow him up: “Th-, there is no Sherlock, John. You were _alone_.”

John blinked, “Of course, I was. When … I ran off, I left him there. I need to know where he is, please.” There is no definitive way to describe the utter anguish that had presented itself on Lestrade’s face.

Molly had begun to cry softly in the corner and Sarah had to lead her out with difficulty.

“I have to stay with him,” she told her, glancing back at the boy who stared at Lestrade with incredulity.

“Molly, he’ll be okay, they’ll look after him.”

It was several moments after Sarah had reluctantly forced Molly out of the room, red faced and trembling, that Lestrade found the courage to look John in the eye. Though it was Anderson who finally voiced what the adults had been thinking.

“There was no Sherlock, there never was. We looked at the tapes,” his voice seemed to fail him as a strange look began to bloom in John’s face. “Y-you were alone, talking to yourself.”

After barely a heartbeat, Sally whirled round and fixed Anderson with a filthy glare.

He flushed a deep red, “I’m sorry. I, he needed to be told.”

He sounded ashamed of himself, “It was the right thing to do. I’m sorry.”

“With all of your usual _tact_ ,” Sally fumed but she had softened a little.

By then John wasn’t listening, he was deep inside his head and real life had taken a step back, it was just background noise. He could hear the blood pumping abound his body, could feel the unruly vibrations that clamoured through his hand. He could hear Sherlock’s voice loud and clear. He could see his face as though he was stood in front of him all dark curls and wide, speculating eyes.

Nothing was real to him now but Sherlock, his bright intelligence, his friendship, his vibrancy. For a few sacred moments John relived Sherlock, he raised him upon a pedestal and glorified him in all his realness. He loved him, hated him and envied him in a cacophony of memories. And _then_ it hurt.

Lestrade looked wrecked with guilt. “Who did this?” To which both PC’s chorused “Sebastian Moran.”

John didn’t care about that anymore because his whole existence now seemed centred on Sherlock. Then, there was black silence in his head, a consecrated emptiness that spread all over his body with a viscosity that heaved a dry, wretched sob from John’s throat before the boy fell to his side: weary of living.

He remembered.

 -

The Watsons walked a quiet pace along the pathway. John walked just in front of his parents, whose arms were linked, and their heads close together, murmuring quietly in commiseration. The wide stone slabs felt sturdy beneath John’s feet – he studiously measured his step so as to avoid the cracks, silly yes, but John couldn’t help but wonder how Sherlock would react if he were there.

‘You look like an imbecile, John, what’re you doing?’ he’d sigh with an accustomed weariness.

“It’s an experiment,” John would tease, watching Sherlock from his periphery.

Sherlock would surely roll his eyes but his chest would’ve puffed up slightly with pride and he would bare that lopsided grin that he seldom showed at all. That grin was John’s favourite of Sherlock’s smiles. To an untrained eye (that is: everyone outside either the Watson or the Holmes’) Sherlock had one smile, one that dripped with sarcasm and disdain. John however had catalogued each and every smile Sherlock displayed.

There was the smile which he used on Mummy every time they’d both trudged in from the garden covered in dirt and water and experiments. The one he had when he sang along to his father’s records, the one he used when Mycroft appraised him and Sherlock thought he wasn’t looking.

There was also that smile which he used on Mrs Watson the time when he and John managed to turn her living room into an Easter wonderland in time for when Mycroft and Mr Watson and Harry came down and the Holmes’ arrived for breakfast.

John liked this particular grin of Sherlock’s because it was an exact copy of the first time John announced Sherlock as his friend when they were barely four years old. Sherlock stared at him for a long few moments, unabashed surprise and perplexity on his face.

“But I don’t have friends.” He insisted, to which John replied: “You do now.”

Sherlock then proceeded to dragging John around the Holmes’ estate hollering to anyone who came near, his Mummy, Lorna the beloved Cook, Father, the rest of the staff and even Mycroft.

“This is John Watson,” he’d said. “He’s my friend.”

John had never felt prouder of himself in that moment. John walked with his head down, his hands absently playing with a daisy he’d picked up a few paces behind. His body seemed to know just where to go without any input from his brain. His body was still wrecked and ravaged with the beating he had taken but he needed to do this. He remembered being in Headmaster Lestrade’s office barely an hour before.

By the time that John was gauzed, clean and in fresh pair of clothes his parents had brought, it was a long time past school hours and he sat in Lestrade’s office flanked by both of his parents.

Paul Watson had barged into the office kneeling down by his son, barely keeping a stoic face and carefully hugging John,burying his face in his son's neck - his hands were curled tightly in white-knuckled fists behind John’s back.

His wife, Ellen, was much less composed: puffy, red eyes and shoulders taut with unshed tears and touching John and feathering kisses on his face for all she was worth to make sure that her son was there and alive and well. Lestrade sat there ruddy-cheeked and casting furtive glances towards Sarah who sat slightly to the side.

John didn’t remember much of the conversation between his parents and Lestrade, what he does remember comes in short, jagged bits and pieces in such a way that John doesn’t know the order in which they occurred.

He replays a particular moment though; in this Lestrade composed himself back to his professional rigour before addressing Mr Watson.

“John’s attack was brought on by something that the boys saw in the diner. Do you want to press ch-“

“Of course.” Mr Watson cut in swiftly, his hand gripping the arm rest.

“Right, well. Yes, erm, John seems to have a-,” Lestrade coughed, glanced nervously at John before continuing. “An imaginary friend.”

There was a silence which neither Lestrade nor Sarah, the self-appointed mediator of the situation, wanted to break. John spoke up then, his voice ravished and unexpected in the conversation. “He isn’t imaginary.” Lestrade looked at Sarah for the confidence to speak up but after another long silence John continued. “You don’t believe me.” Lestrade considered how to phrase his reply before settling for “I believe that you believe it.” Mrs Watson had begun to cry softly in this interlude, letting go of her son’s arm to sob into her handkerchief. Mr Watson stared past Lestrade, out of the window although Lestrade doubted that he was seeing anything, instead his eyes shone with unshed tears and a distant memory.

“John is telling the truth,” he said.

 _Dear God, are they all crazy?_ Lestrade mentally slapped himself as the thought crossed his mind and willed himself to be a professional. Sarah on the other hand looked at the Watsons with a renewed curiosity.

“At least, it’s partly true,” Mr Watson continued, oblivious to Lestrade’s internal monologue and Sarah’s interest in his family’s cognitive functions. John didn’t listen to his father’s words after that, nor did he concentrate his mother’s badly stifled sobs. The whole scene was fuzzy and unfocused in his mind. As much as he tried he just couldn’t remember what his father said to make his mother sob anew. ‘Deleted’ the memory Sherlock would have said in his usual way.

“I’d say you deleted the memory, John, but the attempt is, quite frankly, so appalling it’s actually amusing.”

The inordinate amount of times John would have to genuinely restrain himself from throttling his best friend would give anyone heart palpitations.

All of this thinking flew out of John’s mind once he looked up, still quite away from his destination. There it is, in all its glory, barely two feet of shiny, black marble with the words ‘Sherlock Holmes’ embossed in thick, gold lettering. John wondered how something so bland and ordinary could encompass his best friend, his Sherlock with a personality that was so far from ordinary that adults and children alike struggled to give him a label.

Sherlock would never admit it but John knew that their world’s obsession with labelling Sherlock cut deeply into his friend’s heart and ripped him apart from the inside. And so with all their taunts and marginalisation they finally achieved it. They burned the _heart_ out of Sherlock Holmes.

 -

A man – no a boy – was sitting by Sherlock’s grave. He was clad in a sharp, black suit and his purple school tie. His back was to the headstone, twirling a white tulip from the bouquet at his side while talking softly to the headstone. He seemed relaxed, an attitude John had seldom seen take his form in the last few months, he was so engrossed in the flimsy contact with Sherlock that he didn’t even notice John stop a few feet short of him.

John wasn’t near enough to hear what he was saying but he could imagine.

Mycroft chuckled tenderly and turned his head mouth open and ready with words that evaporated on his tongue once he saw the Watsons. He stood up quickly and he changed. He held his shoulders rigid and his spine straight. He modelled his face into a carefully controlled façade of mild disinterest and wisdom far beyond his seventeen years of age. But Mycroft hadn’t yet fully developed the mechanisms to mask the grief and the guilt from his eyes.

John’s brain didn’t even articulate his actions and he was careening into a full bodied hug with Mycroft, head buried against his stomach before he was even aware of what he was doing.

“Five of them? Have they been properly apprehended?” Mycroft asked, hands wrapping gingerly around John, because Mycroft always knew and he never missed anything and it was such a Holmesian mannerism that John couldn’t help but be slightly comforted by it. He nodded.

By the time the Watson’s had caught up and were facing them Mycroft was deftly tugging John off of him. John finally assented although he would have much preferred to be glued to Mycroft like an unyielding octopus.

“You missed last Sunday’s dinner, Mycroft,” John’s mother eyed him carefully.

“Yes. I really am sorry, Mrs Watson – I was very busy. What with schoolwork and the student elections coming up …” Mycroft trailed off and visibly withered in front of Mrs Watson’s gaze a feat only managed by one other woman, Mummy Holmes. Well, one didn’t spend an inordinate amount of time with Vienne Holmes without picking up a few tricks. “Yes, well. I’ll be expecting you there this Sunday. We all will.”

He nodded, “Harry?”

“Harry especially. We’ll be picking her up from sixth form, get something to eat before we drop you off. She doesn’t know about what happened to John yet.”

He wanted to see Harry, he missed her. He had avoided his best friend for far too long. Mycroft looked fondly at his baby brother’s grave before being pulled into a hug by Mr Watson. Mycroft tensed, but Mr Watson didn’t relent, he just kept on hugging until Mycroft slowly placed his arms around him, all awkward limbs and familial embarrassment.

They stood like that for a long time, Mrs Watson keeping John close, and weeping quietly at the memory of the boy she loved as much as her own son. They were a family, the Watsons and the Holmes’. As awkward and stilted as any family is wont to be. They fit, not easily mind, with so many clashes of personality and the ridiculous expectations they had of each other and the strange backgrounds they each came from but they were all fond of each other.

Hated each other and loved each other and ultimately they were united in love and grief and exasperation.

They had said their goodbyes to the grave after a very long while - Mycroft had simply nodded “Tomorrow,” a simple word that added up to a thousand promises and revealed a barrelful of devotion to his little brother.

The senior Watsons had sung their lament to Sherlock, “We never did take you to the botanical garden did we Sherlock? It’s probably just as well isn’t it? You’d have driven us all mad with your experiments – whizzing about the place. It’s not decent! And there’s still that ruddy experiment of yours in our kitchen, we haven’t gotten rid of it yet. It’s like we’re waiting for you to come back – as though you’ll barge in without a moment’s notice because it’s _imperative_ that you finish it and _detrimental_ if you don't! And we-. Well, in anther lifetime yeah? We miss you, Lock.”

So now John was all alone, staring at the inanimate slab that contained his whole life and three of the most important people in his life were waiting for him inside the car.

“Hi, Sherlock, It’s been a while hasn’t it? Four days since I saw you last? Well. Um. Not you – obviously - your grave. I think that’s the longest we’ve ever spent apart. God, you were clingy!” John laughed, trying to lighten the situation, but it died as soon as it had started. “I forgot today; about you and what happened. It got me beat up, I don’t mind as much, I suppose, character building and all that. I just – I _forgot_ Sherlock. How could I have forgotten?” John sighed. Turning his head once, twice seeing the plethora of graves around him but not observing them.

“You know Mycroft blames himself right? For your-,” John swallows, his throat hurts and he just wants to cry. “For your fall. He says if only he’d been there with us that you wouldn’t have gotten so close to the edge and slipped. _Slipped_. God, if only he _knew_. You see, Mycroft thinks he can read me like a book and usually he can but not about this. I haven’t told anyone about this Sherlock. I haven’t told a soul and it’s _killing_ me. Why did you have to be so reckless? Accepting that stupid dare or whatever the fuck it was from bloody Jim, Sherlock!” John was getting angry now, vision blurring as his mind was assaulted by images again and again. "How could you be so _stupid_?"

He’s sure he looks like a mad man, bandaged and gauzed, blood crusting in his fair hair and positively fuming at his best friend’s grave but he doesn’t care.

All he can see is Jim taunting Sherlock.

“I want to solve the problem. Our problem, Sherlock, is the Fall. But don’t be scared. Falling’s just like flying except there’s a more permanent destination. Do you think you can do it? Are you smart enough Sherlock? Prove it. Prove how smart you are Sherlock, escape the fall. Or don’t. I don’t suppose you have the guts for it anyway.”

Mycroft saying, "I’ll be quick, I promise. It’s just that I’d promised Anthea …” and off he’d gone off with a smile and wink to kiss and love his girlfriend without knowing the fate that awaited his little brother.

Harry was off with Clara, their fourth date. They’d been giggling and looking and being general nuisances but she couldn’t have known she’d be wailing further on in the night. Crying out for Sherlock and drinking herself into a stupor. John could imagine their parents at the Holmes Estate laughing and drinking and waiting for the children to get back in time for dinner. John doesn’t think it ever crossed their minds that they’d need to bury Sherlock. He could remember seeing the look on the vicar’s face as she read out a passage at the service.

Their family wasn’t a particularly religious one, but they’d all trundle along, all eight of them, to church at Easter and Christmas if only to appease Mrs Hudson who had been the vicar there since the children could remember and loved the Watson-Holmes’ like her very own family. John remembered how broken she sounded when she sighed ‘Oh, Sherlock’ as Mrs Holmes clung to her.

John kept seeing Sherlock atop the Reichenbach flats fifteen minutes from his house. Arms outstretched a smug grin on his face. John could remember the pain in his leg as he ran across the across the street to reach Sherlock, how he stood stock still in the middle of it with his phone glued to his ear.

Sherlock laughing slightly in his ear, “Don’t worry John I’ll be fine. Just trust me.” John remembered as Sherlock let out a panicked, “No, John!” just seconds before he hit the ground.

John couldn’t even remember the bike skidding around the corner and bolting straight into him – He just kept sobbing for his friend. His dead best friend. He thought he’d figured it out. He knew how fake a fall – he could outsmart Jim Moriarty, the crazed child psychopath that they’d chanced upon. He’d left after that, back to Ireland John supposed. He was only there to visit his grandmother. John didn’t trust him and he sure as hell didn’t like him, but Sherlock had always liked a challenge and there was no way he’d refuse a taunt like that.

“But it all went wrong didn’t it?” John was all but crying now, “Didn’t it Sherlock? Your stupid bloody experiment went wrong. You were wrong and you left me. To pick up the pieces …”

John stood there, crying over the unreacheable body of his dead best friend. Crying, until there was nothing left to cry out he touched the headstone, blinked back his tears. Took several, shaky deep breath, and all of the anger seemed to have left him now, a deep ache in it's place.

“You … you told me once that you weren’t all I made you up to be. Um. There were times that I didn’t even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best friend and the most human … human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me otherwise. So … there. I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there’s just one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this …”

 -

It was very late at night and John didn’t get his wish.

He sunk into an uneasy and stressful sleep. He dreamt of blood-drenched locks and pale eyes. He dreamt of his best friend, their first meeting – their last when he thought their meetings would never end. He cried and fisted his hands in his sheets as Sherlock hit the ground. There was blood everywhere. Jim stood a little way off laughing at John and silly, _silly_ Sherlock.

John kept crying, “He’s dead, Sherlock’s dead.” Jim kept laughing “That’s what people DO!”

He woke up sweating and panting with a hand at his shoulder shaking him almost violently.

“Wake _up_.”

It was clear and distinct and he would have recognised it anywhere. John opened his eyes and focused on Sherlock. His hair was as usual all akimbo whilst looking perfectly intentional, his eyes were sharp as ever and his whole being screamed the impossibility.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“Yes,” John breathed, looking up at Sherlock “Yeah, horrible. I can’t ….”

“It does not do well to dwell on dreams and forget to live John.” John looked at him; something about that sentence rang familiar with him. Had Sherlock said it before? But John of all people knew how he hated repetition. There was a long silence and John could have sworn Sherlock’s cheek coloured a little.

“Oh, come on John,” He swiftly changed the subject “As soon as you are out of my sight you’re an in-bed-by-nine person? What happened to your sense of adventure?”

John slid up onto his elbows and looked at Sherlock with his impossible grin and misguided intentions. John raised one of his eyebrows as much as he could (his face was still swollen and his facial movements limited) “That went out of the window when I got jumped by five lads.” Sherlock’s face grew softer, just for a split second before his mask was replaced. He sat gingerly on the end of John’s bed.

“Oh. Well, you look terrible. A swollen eye and lip is not a good look on you. Didn’t you remember any of the defensive tactics I taught you last year?” John sat up properly and gaped at his friend.

“You are the worst friend ever you know that right?” he laughed. “What have I done to deserve you?”

Sherlock pouted, sat up straighter. “That sentence is completely illogical. For it to be correct would suggest that our friendship was meticulously planned out long before we were sentient beings. ‘Fate’ some would call it. Utter nonsense more like. You didn’t do anything to deserve me – we just ... happened.”

“You’re illogical,” John replied, quietly ignoring Sherlock’s rant. He sighed, a deep breath that seemed to come from the very depths of his lungs. John stared at his ceiling, not seeing and he grew listless. “Why are you here, Sherlock?”

“You needed me.”

“I needed you this morning and you didn’t help then.”

“Don’t be an imbecile John. I couldn’t help you. I need to be corporeal to be able to fend off your attackers. Which – which I would have done without hesitation if I was able. You must know that.”

“Right, _corporeal_. So are you real or just a figment of my imagination? Just something that is happening inside my head?”

“Of course this is happening inside your head John, but why on Earth should that mean it isn’t real?” John narrowed his eyes at his friends. He recognised that quotation …

“You got that from Harry Potter.”

“Preposterous. I did no such thing.”

“We watched it last Christmas, Sherlock.”

Sherlock waived a dismissive hand, “Well, I don't remember it. Musn't have made an impression on me.”

The two boys stared at each other for a long while before utterly dissolving into giggles. They laughed and laughed and laughed and it felt like old times.

“Do you … do you just have a bank of Dumbledore quotes ready to whip out?” John wheezed.

“He’s convenient!” Sherlock chuckled emphatically. The laughter soon died down and John’s room (littered with Sherlock’s things, as per usual) returned to a more sombre ambiance.

“You stacked the petri dishes in the wrong order,” Sherlock tutted “It’s an invalid experiment now, well done, John.”

“Why are you here? I wouldn’t have thought haunting was your thing. Are you my guardian angel Sherlock?” John smirked.

“Don’t make people out to be angels, John. Angels don’t exist and if they did I wouldn’t be one of them.”

“Oh, well you’re just a whole big bag of loveliness aren’t you?" John mutters dryly. "It’s radiating.”

“You know what I mean, John.”

“Are you ever going to go away?” John asked picking at his mattress. Sherlock shifted so that he was facing John.

“Eventually," Sherlock shrugs, There’s no need to pretend. "I’ll stop appearing in this _form_. And you’ll move on. Everyone will.”

John gaped at him. “We don’t-, we don't just _move on_ from a someone's death Sherlock. That’s not how it works. We’ll always remember you and miss you and love you.”

Sherlock shrugged, trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably. “Well, you’ll get better. You’ll develop the techniques you need to lead your life and you’ll have to help everyone. You know how horribly sentimental our family can be.”

“Our family,” John repeated, as if weighing the meaning of the words. “You were the best friend any one could wish for Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted. “Of course, I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

John sighed. “Modest aren’t we?”

Sherlock frowned, his best ‘oh-my-god-John-are-you-perfectly-imbecilic?’ Etched all over his features “I’m really not.”

“ _Sarcasm_ , Sherlock. Sarcasm.”

“John.”

Pause.

“Sherlock.”

“I heard what you said today at the cemetery. I’m sorry.”

John smiled “Don’t be. An idiot like you wouldn’t have bloody seen the consequences of something as stupid as that.” Sherlock stared at John looking absolutely incredulous.

“Ah,” said John “Doesn’t feel so great when it’s you on the end of Sherlockian insults. Does it?”

“It is of little consequence John. Now do shut up and go to sleep. You have school tomorrow. As we both know, sleep is vital in recuperation and the healing of skin cells. You look hideous and I’d hate to subject any of your peers to your face for any longer than necessary.”

Same old Sherlock, John thought.

It was so comfortingly familiar that he slid back down once again, his hand briefly touching the hidden drawer at the bottom of his bed that should have had Sherlock’s neatly made bed in it but of course it had contained loose papers, abandoned research and all sorts of knick knacks John couldn’t be bothered to identify.

John remembered all the times Sherlock would collapse on his bed, shoving him to the very side and curling around him as his body decided to try out some very ambitious sleeping positions.

John would sigh, he’d be absolutely exasperated but he couldn’t deny how comfortable he was in the mornings. Sherlock was a lot softer than his skinny frame would have you believe.

“Stop thinking John. It’s distracting and I hardly think you have anything of importance to muse over anyway.”

John smiled and tucked the duvet up to his chin because even in a life well lived people hurt. There are always those who are left behind, trying to acclimatise to the void threatening to invade their souls.

They call it ‘yearning’, such a romantic term for such a truly unbearable feeling. No matter the amount of thick barriers you place around your heart and your soul and your mind – the very essence of humanity finds a way to seep in to you with its laughter, love and humility. And no matter how hard he tried, Sherlock Holmes was and will always be loved. And through his family (his crazy, dysfunctional family) he learned to love back. Therein is the beauty of life.

At a first, cursory, glance the blond boy with his neatly parted hair and freshly pressed pyjamas would seem to be alone. But he wasn’t and he probably never would be.

Not really.

**Author's Note:**

> So John has a cognitive dysfunction triggered by grief that sometimes makes him forget that Sherlock is gone, and he also conjure up his ghost. And that's the end of that!  
> I did get a little (a lot) philosophical towards the end of the story but you can just ignore that! I also just realised that the school would have been informed of the trauma that John went through if this actually happened in real life, but for now let's just embrace the suspension of disbelief yeah? :)  
> I hope you liked it - see you guys soon.


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